


Gentle

by LoveandScience



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caretaking, Depression, Disordered Eating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 15:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveandScience/pseuds/LoveandScience
Summary: Crowley woke again feeling something like hunger. The weak pull wasn’t enough to get him up. Besides, he reasoned, he wasn’t worth anything that made him feel better or took care of his body. Sleep pulled him back under.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 137





	Gentle

The ceiling wasn’t that interesting, but Crowley lied awake in bed staring, anyway.

Eventually, sleep came.

Crowley opened his eyes a few days later, thinking he heard his phone. It took a few seconds of fumbling to put it on silent and unplug from the charger, thankfully in arms reach of the bed. And with a short grumble, he rolled over and slept again.

Crowley woke again feeling something like hunger. The weak pull wasn’t enough to get him up. Besides, he reasoned, he wasn’t worth anything that made him feel better or took care of his body. Sleep pulled him back under.

“Crowley?” he heard, not bothering to push himself up from the bed. “Crowley, are you there?” He started to close his eyes again, before the owner of the voice registered.

With effort, his body feeling like the entire weight of London, he pushed himself up and made his way to the door, hand pressing the wall the entire way to keep himself upright.

“Crowley, if you’re there, just let me know you’re alright.”

He responded by opening the door, because talking felt like a lot of effort that he didn’t have to spare.

Aziraphale brightened at first, then became deeply concerned. “What happened?”

Crowley made his way across the room to a mirror for a better look. He looked sunken, deadened. Lifeless. He blinked, then turned back to Aziraphale, who had let himself in and locked the door. What was there to say?

“Um, right,” Aziraphale said, thinking. “Right. Okay, Crowley, why don’t you come sit down at the table?” He took Crowley’s hand and Crowley didn’t object. Let himself be led around his own home like a stranger.

He sat obediently, slumping over to rest his face in his arms as Aziraphale left, and closed his eyes.

The hand that gently shook him awake stayed on his shoulder, and Crowley raised his head up, bleary-eyed. A strong smell that should have been good emanated from the dish in front of him, and his stomach growled angrily. He swallowed, fighting a wave of nausea that warred with the hunger.

“Maybe start with the crackers, the soup might be a bit much to start with,” Aziraphale said gently.

“Don’t deserve you being nice,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale sat in the chair beside his, looking at him seriously. “Yes, you do,” he said with conviction enough that Crowley’s eyes threatened to water. He couldn’t meet the angel’s intense gaze for too long, and took a cracker. With determination, he made it through eating it. And then another, and a third.

Before he could decline, a spoonful of soup was by his lips and he didn’t have the energy to argue. When Aziraphale finished, Crowley felt pleasantly full and somewhat guilty for it, but those thoughts drifted away when Aziraphale led him up and away from the table again.

He didn’t bother to ask where they were going, he trusted Aziraphale entirely. Whatever the angel wanted was fine, even if it hurt.

When he could drag his attention back to reality, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself stepping into a warm bubble bath. He still had his underwear and undershirt on, which drew out a small smile. Aziraphale and his modesty.

Even more surprising was when gentle hands began scrubbing shampoo into his hair. He closed his eyes and practically purred. Almost.

Those kind hands rubbed his shoulders, his arms, his lower legs in turn.

“Don’t deserve this,” he protested, but could never have made a move to resist it.

“Yes, you do,” Aziraphale said, leaving no room for argument.

Crowley opened his eyes at the feel of something light on his head. He glanced at the mirror to find a hat of bubbles adorning him. He looked at Aziraphale only to be assailed with a bubble mustache and goatee, and Aziraphale’s wonderful smile.

“The next time you feel like this,” Aziraphale said, serious again, “you’re going to call me.”

And Crowley could never let Aziraphale down or deny him anything, so he would do as he was told.


End file.
